


Golden Cages, Silver Linings

by sunkelles



Series: Sansa/All the Ladies [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/F, Femslash, Hopeful angst, Past Rape/Non-con, Sexy Times, i have no idea what to tag this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-08
Updated: 2014-10-08
Packaged: 2018-02-20 10:55:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2426180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunkelles/pseuds/sunkelles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This queen is gentler than the last one and kinder as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Golden Cages, Silver Linings

**Author's Note:**

> The rape indicated in the tags happened between Cersei and Sansa. All of the Daenerys/Sansa is consensual. 
> 
> I'm pretty happy with this. I hope that you guys enjoy it.

The dragon queen marches on King’s Landing as the first snows of autumn fall on the Crownlands. The siege lasts nearly a day before it becomes evident that the Lannisters have lost and queen Daenerys descends into the great hall. The woman, clad all in white is trailed by her Queensguard and three dragons. Her hair is a shimmery shade of silver-blonde and her crown glitters atop her head, which is held high. She examines the room, not in spite but calculation.

One of the men in her party starts listing off the woman’s titles, “Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, the First of Her Name.”  
_This is the way a queen is meant to look_ , Sansa thinks. She looks to the Targaryen woman in awe.

“the Unburnt, Queen of Meereen, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, Mother of Dragons, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”

The former queen regent rises from her place at the head of the room. She glares at Sansa as she passes her, as if she thinks that her hostage should have done something about this, as if Sansa owed the Lannister queen any sort of loyalty. Sansa finds herself seething at the prospect; she didn’t ask to become the queen’s whore.

“Joffrey is king of the seven kingdoms,” the queen regent says, “ _My son_ is protector of the realm.”

“Your son is dead,” the dragon queen says. It is not quite devoid of emotion. There is no remorse in it, but it seems to have a hint of pity. Cersei looks taken aback.

“You are not queen of the seven kingdoms yet,” Cersei Lannister says in a shrill voice.

“Oh,” Daenerys says with a small smirk on her lips, “I’m not? I seem to recall that I have just taken King’s Landing.”

“You will be queen over my dead body,” Cersei snarls. Daenerys sighs, but she seems to have expected this response.

“If that is how you want it,” the queen shakes her head. Cersei marches towards the dragon queen, clad in arrogance and Lannister scarlet. Sansa knows what will happen, but she finds herself grinning. This is the answer to her prayers. She supposes that if she couldn’t be the one to end the queen, then dragonfire is the second best thing.  
The queens stand face to face; green eyes meet lavender ones.

“Drogon,” the dragon queen says, her voice confident and clear, “Dracarys.” The largest dragon, which stands nearly as tall as Daenerys, breathes a stream of fire onto the lion queen and her screams echo through the halls of the palace. The nobles around them look to the queen in terror as the charred corpse falls to the ground. Sansa, however, is sure that her face shows a smile that is completely inappropriate for the situation.

“I will grant protection and forgiveness to anyone willing to bend the knee,” the queen tells them.

“I am not heartless,” she continues, “Not all of you will meet your end to dragonfire.” Sansa drops to her knees before anyone else in the room does. A few Lannister loyalists glare at her, as if they expected better of the queen’s whore, but Sansa quickly shifts her gaze to meet that of the new queen. The queen, standing tall and proud, walks to meet her.

“Who are you?” she asks with a small smile curling on her lips.

“I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell,” Sansa says clearly .

“Sansa,” the queen asks, “do you pledge your fealty to me.”

“I do,” Sansa says. She’s sure that she means it more than anything she has said in a long, long time. But she can’t help but remember when a different queen offered her protection (from the people’s ire, the headman’s block, and Joffrey). It makes her shutter involuntarily as she tries to convince herself that Daenerys is not Cersei.

* * *

 

  
The queen calls her to “take a walk” with her the next morning. Sansa does not refuse. She cannot. Sansa knows what can happen when she refuses monarchs.

“Lady Sansa,” the queen says as she enters the queen’s chambers.

“Your Grace,” she responds, because she still knows her curtsies even when she is afraid of her uneasy standing in the new queen’s court.

“Walk with me,” the queen tells her. The queen’s silver-blonde hair falls down her back in waves and gleams against the light blue of her dress. They walk out of her chambers and start down halls. Daenerys does not speak to her again until they are far away from prying ears at the edge of the godswood. The queen’s lilac eyes meet her own.

“What were you to Cersei Lannister?” the queen asks. Sansa is taken aback. Though she had not known what to expect, she certainly had not expected this. She has to pause a moment in order to decide what to say.

“We were lovers,” Sansa says, though she’s not sure that’s the right word. There was no love in their actions, and Sansa never wanted it in the first place. No matter how easily her treacherous body gave into the queen’s advances, she never wanted it. Sometimes, she wasn’t even sure it was worth the “protection” it brought.  
Daenerys frowns at her, and Sansa knows that she has said the wrong thing. She should have lied. She should have told her anything but what she just said.

“You do not sound so certain about that,” the queen says, and it does not sound like an accusation as much as a question.

“We had sex,” Sansa corrects with a blush, “but I did not have much choice.”

“That sounds more like the truth,” Daenerys says. She pauses for a moment, and Sansa finds herself looking around. She never ceases to feel strange in the Red Keep’s godswood. It does not feel complete without a weirwood.

“You were a hostage,” Daenerys says, “But please understand, you have sworn your allegiance to me and my cause. I do not consider you a hostage, Lady Sansa.” Sansa is taken aback. She had not expected to be given any degree of freedom.

“I do not understand, Your Grace,” Sansa says, and it is true. She cannot understand why anyone would keep her around except as a hostage. Her worth lies solely in her use as a hostage and lately, her body.   
She can hear the queen’s voice whispering in the back of her head: _it’s a good thing that you’re so pretty, little dove, because you never would have survived with just your wits._  
Daenerys smiles at her softly. It looks lovely on her lips, and suddenly, Sansa can understand why so many people call her gorgeous. There is something in the woman’s smile that sets Sansa at ease, much like Cersei’s used to set her on edge. 

“You bowed to me first, and you seem trustworthy,” she says, “and you have no reason to harbor Lannister loyalties. I need friends, Sansa.” The girl nods in response. This is about her claim to Winterfell, but she supposes that she shouldn’t have expected anything different. She can’t even blame the queen, not when she has taken care of the king who had her beaten and stripped in front of the court and the queen who forced her into bed. She can’t begrudge the woman her politics when she has saved Sansa from so much worse. The queen brushes her hand over Sansa’s.

“Would you like to return with me?” she asks. Sansa can feel herself blushing, though this time it is not in embarrassment. Some part of her wishes that the queen would have taken her hand and held it.

But Sansa, always the proper lady, snaps herself out of her thoughts and says, “Of course, Your Grace.”

* * *

 

 

Sansa sleeps in a bed alone that night for what seems like the first time in forever. There are no arms wrapped possessively around her. No one kisses her roughly or forces her to her knees. Sansa sleeps more soundly than she has since her father’s death.

* * *

 

  
The queen requests her presence for dinner the next day. The conversation begins formally enough as they sit beside each other in the small table in the queen’s new chambers. They speak of the political climate, and of which houses will be likely to bend the knee to her without a fight. Somehow, the topic shifts to their childhoods. Sansa speaks of her siblings and her parents, and of the summer snows of Winterfell. Daenerys tells her of years in the Free Cities, and a house with a red door, and Sansa feels as though she hasn’t spoken this frankly to anyone in a long time, maybe in her entire life. There is laughter, and there is wine, and for a few moments the two women nearly forget the war looming over their heads.  
The queen’s lips look soft and pink in the light of her antechamber. The light flickers against her spun-silver hair and gives her lilac eyes an ethereal glow. Sansa has never seen a woman more beautiful. She feels a sort of desire within her, and she looks to Daenerys, who has a similar look written on her face. Sansa knows that look. It is one of lust, and she’s seen it written plainly many a time on the lion queen’s face. She does not even bother waiting for the dragon queen to demand the same of her, and she closes the space between them.  
Daenerys breaks away from her kiss.

“I’m not Cersei,” she says softly, “I won’t make your life hell if you don’t have sex with me.”

She pauses a moment before she finally, in a quiet tone, says, “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

Sansa closes the gap between them, and ghosts her lips over the light pink ones of her queen.

“And what if I want to?” she asks softly, seductively.

“Then,” Daenerys says, her lips curling into a smirk, “I’d be happy to oblige.” They barely make it to the queen’s bed before they are kissing in earnest and rutting like animals in heat. This queen is gentler than the last one and kinder as well. The dragon still has a fire beneath her skin, but she does not dig her fingers into her back like claws and leave Sansa bloodied and sore. Her kisses are soft and sweet, and her hair is a silvery shade instead of a golden blonde. Sansa kisses her fiercely and loses herself in her touch.

* * *

 

  
Sansa awakes in queen Daenerys’ soft embrace. She shifts, and she can feel the queen awaken beside her.

“Your Grace,” she says softly, “I’m sorry to have woken you.”

“Please,” the queen says softly into her ear, “call me Dany.” Sansa nuzzles her face into her chest.

“Dany,” She says softly, and the words feel right on her lips. She never could have called the old queen by a nickname, not even by her first name. She had made sure Sansa knew that.  Dany smiles softly at her, and her lavender eyes don’t look like the eyes of a conqueror. They look like the eyes of a little girl looking for love. Sansa wonders if her own eyes used to look like that. Maybe they still do. She curls back into Dany’s embrace and allows herself to fall back asleep.

* * *

 

  
It seems that their bedroom talks always shift to politics, and often, to Northern politics. Dany’s newest idea seems to be installing Sansa as Lady of Winterfell and Warden of the North once the dust settles in the North and she has crushed the Bolton’s rebellion.

“The people will not follow me,” Sansa tells her, “I was a hostage for nearly two years, not to mention the fact that I am a woman.” Northerners respect strong men, and occasionally, they respect strong women. But those are women like Arya or Dany, not women like Sansa. In some ways, Sansa is still just Cersei’s stupid little bird, singing all her songs.

“Your brother was King in the North for a time,” Daenerys reasons, “the people of the North will rally behind a Stark.”

“My brother was a traitor,” Sansa says softly. The words are familiar. Cersei made her repeat them enough time that they flow off Sansa’s tongue unbidden. But no matter how many times she says them, they still leave a foul feeling in her heart. Daenerys is taken aback, so Sansa continues.

“My father was too,” she insists, sure that this is what her lover wants to hear, “he helped overthrow your father.”

“My father was mad,” Daenerys says, “I cannot blame your father for rebelling against him. And your brother’s rebellion had nothing to do with me. Sansa, you do not have to betray your family for me.”  
Dany is quiet for a moment.

“I am not Cersei,” she says, the words catching in her throat. Sansa can feel tears prickling at her eyelids, but she lets them fall. She digs her face into Dany’s chest.

“I love you,” she mutters, “I love you Dany.” She can hear her lover’s breath against her, and Dany moves her fingers softly through her auburn hair. To Sansa’s surprise, she feels safe.

* * *

 

  
“How was your brother overthrown?” Dany asks her calmly the next morning, as she is getting ready to meet with her advisors.  
She can hear the queen’s sanguine voice taunting her all over again. 

_The wedding went off without a hitch_ , the queen had said, _but it wasn’t until the feast began that things became interesting._ Cersei had shifted and wrapped her arms around her in a manner that might have seemed loving if it were someone else. Then, she let her lips ghost over Sansa’s ear.

She had whispered, _that’s when the Frey’s slaughtered your brother and his men, and your mother as well._

She could almost hear the queen’s smile in words as she had said, _they dumped her corpse in the river. And they sewed the head of your brother’s direwolf onto his pretty little neck._

Sansa feels like she’s suffocating again as the memories rush back, as the queen’s terrible voice fills her head. She’s just a scared little girl again, trying to survive among the lions who’ve slaughtered her pack. The tears fall from her eyes as Dany gathers her up in her arms.

“It’s alright, Sansa,” she says, “I’m so sorry- I didn’t think-” But Sansa wraps her arms around her lover to remind herself that she is there, real, _Dany_ , not Cersei. The woman before her is a dragon, not a lioness. Sansa pushes the thoughts aside as she breathes in Dany’s scent: the scent of lilac perfume and dragonfire, and she takes a deep breath.

“His bannermen turned on him at a wedding,” she says softly, and Dany looks as though she’s going to be ill.

“Ser Selmy told me that it was terrible,” Dany says, “that I wouldn’t want the details. I think that I believe him now.”

“You should,” Sansa tells her, and the image of Grey Wind’s head on her brother’s body flashes through her mind as she forces herself to remain composed.

“You do not want the details,” she says.

_ I wish that I did not have the details _ , Sansa thinks.

Some nights, however, the talk does not shift to politics. Sometimes they simply reminisce. Sometimes they lose their thoughts in each other’s bodies, and sometimes, they simply lie together, remembering that there’s still something in the world to live for.

* * *

 

  
Daenerys has brought up making Sansa consort. She has also tossed up making Sansa Lady of Winterfell and her Warden of the North, but those are worries for the future. Those are worries for after Dany has put down the Boltons and the Baratheons. Those are thoughts for the end of the war, or more accurately, after this period of brief peace. But she has Dorne and the Reach and the Crownlands. And this is a brief period for celebration.

  
Winter has not yet come.


End file.
